


and i'll never go home again (place the call feel it start)

by sleebysloth



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (for now) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Quirks (My Hero Academia), Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Gen, I mean a LOT, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knives, M/M, Slow Burn, Therapy, Work In Progress, but with more trauma!!, god what is this mess, so much therapy is needed, the foxes have quirks, woah thats a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleebysloth/pseuds/sleebysloth
Summary: “Oh? Junior, don’t tell me I missed your quirk coming in!”OR: Everyone has quirks, and honestly it doesn't make anything better.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 15
Kudos: 58





	and i'll never go home again (place the call feel it start)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Lorde's song Buzzcut Season
> 
> uh, hi, this is my first fic ever so don't judge me too much
> 
> i do not have any update schedule whatsoever because i am but a tired child but imma do my best if anyone actually likes this
> 
> basically this is the AFTG books set in a Quirk AU, but everything pretty much stays the same other than the fact they can do some freaky shit
> 
> I am using dialogue and scene cues from the book in some places, so if something feels familiar it's that lol
> 
> this is kinda just a side project for me so don't expect too much quality wise, im mostly just writing as a distraction rn but we will see!!! where this leads!! 
> 
> thanks for clicking btw gives me that good serotonin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: talk of torture, abuse, choking, character death, panic attacks.  
> sorry its a bit(very) angsty at the start, and not much andreil interaction, but hey everyone has to start somewhere, and this is a slow burn we both know you came here to torture every inch of your shipper heart.  
> enjoy!

Hiding will only worsen the punishment, he knows, but he hides anyway.

Lola’s laughter rings in his ears as he struggles to get his breathing under control, and Nathaniel's small form trembles. He presses himself into the back corner of the closet, taking comfort in the steadiness of the walls against his back. On the inside, he is a whirlwind of fear; the outside the polar opposite. Being still and quiet is a skill one has to learn in the Baltimore house, the sooner the better.

His thoughts blur inside him, a great shriek of sound with only one message standing out: _he shouldn't have run, shouldn't have run, shouldn't have run._

He _shouldn’t_ have run; already he can hear the trailing of sharp metal along the banister of the stairs, a low rasping sound that makes Nathaniel’s breathing falter. 

Lola likes to run her knives along surfaces before she attacks, and he has been conditioned to fear it more than the knives themselves. Sometimes Lola does it just to make him stiffen up, sliding her blades along the kitchen table or against the doorframe as she walks into the room. 

Her quirk, Knife Fingers, lets her bend and curl the sharp metal on her hands like Nathaniel would a normal finger, giving her an edge most knife wielders in his father's company don't have, flexible knives allowing for more adept torture. 

It also helps that she's a sick bitch with a probable pain kink, making her exactly the type of person his father keeps under his belt.

He thinks back to the dead pig on the floor of the basement, thinks of how its glassy eyes had stared straight through him, thinks of blood slowly pooling on the concrete. Lola's knives stained with the viscous blood and the bored look on her face as she motioned for him to start on the dead carcass. 

Downstairs, he hears the soft creak of someone testing their weight on the first step, faint laughter accompanying it.

“Jun-i-or,” Lola sings, tone sickly sweet. “Where did you run off to?”

Nathaniel can taste blood in his mouth from where he’s biting his lip, but the pain barely reaches him. 

Pain means nothing when he can hear the _tap tap tap_ of Lola’s heels, slowly climbing the staircase. She’s drawing it out, and he knows she’s enjoying this, will enjoy hearing him scream later.

His throat closes up at the thought of it, but he stifles the sob that would otherwise force its way out. Crying is a luxury someone like him cannot afford. His father has taught him that enough times already. 

_“Shut the fuck up before I gut you like I did him,” Nathan grins, cleaver still dripping with gore. Behind him, the body is slowly leaking guts onto the slate grey concrete, and Nathaniel feels bile rush into the back of his throat._

Nathaniel blinks his father away and focuses, listening for any signs of Lola discovering him.She seems to have ventured downstairs again, everything quiet outside the closet. Somewhere in the house he hears a scream, echoing easily through the house. 

His father must have left the basement door open again; a warning for the rest of the inhabitants of the house as to what would happen if they slipped up. The screams drop into sobs, choked off wet crying mixed with jumbled pleas. 

The screams were easier to listen to.

Nathaniel sits, and he listens, and he _hates_ that all he feels is relief at the cries not being his own. His hands are shaking, he registers, and reaches up to grasp the back of his neck. The familiar pressure reminds him of his mother, grounding him. 

For a moment, he allows himself to imagine her, his mother, coming to rescue him like the brave knight in the stories she used to tell him. She would burst through the door of the house, weapons of all sizes and lengths appearing in the air around her. 

Unafraid and ready to fight for him.

The guards at the door ( _the press of a gun to his head, laughter as his eyes welled up_ ) would be the first ones she turned on. 

Lola would be next, and Nathaniel almost smiles as he thinks of Lola being sliced at by a hundred daggers, every cut mirroring the ones she had put on him. 

Thinks of the knives protruding out from her hands being blunted and chipped, whittled away into nothingness. 

Her quirk wouldn’t be able to save her from his mother; Mary had always been stronger than Lola, and she knew it. 

Finally, Nathaniel imagines how his mother would _laugh_ as she ripped his father apart, and how after everyone who had ever hurt him was torn apart she would hold him close, and they would be safe. 

They could leave, go far away from the stench of blood that lingered in Baltimore. Somewhere where no one would dare hurt them ever again. Somewhere Nathaniel could play Exy without his father's bodyguards, and his mother could smile all the time instead of only when she was watching him play.

But of course, none of that would ever happen, he thinks bitterly. Nothing can stop Nathan Wesninski, and his mother knows it. 

The last person to cross his father ( _blood spattered across concrete, an eyeball slowly being crushed while it was still affixed to the mans face_ ) - well, you would have to be a fool to even _think_ about displeasing Nathan anytime soon.

His mother is not a fool, quite the opposite. Mary is a force of nature, and Nathaniel knows that she would never jeaporadise her or his safety in such a stupid move as storming the Baltimore house. 

The day he escapes his father is the day he gets dragged out in a body bag. But still, Nathaniel dreams of it, has dreamed of it since he was younger than he can remember, ever since his father carved that first mark into him. 

His nightmares remind him of why he dreams in the first place.

_Something is around his throat, lifting him up in the air but Nathaniel can’t see anything except his father's blank face, staring him down from across the room. The only movement Nathan is making is the slight twitches of his hand, held out in front of him._

_“What did I say about your behaviour while we have guests in the house with us, Junior?”_

_The crushing force around Nathaniel's neck lessens just enough for him to draw a quick breath, and he coughs out a reply. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ **_plea_ ** _-”_

_The chokehold comes back in full force, and Nathaniel jolts as his lungs cry out in protest._

_“I don’t want to hear your apologies, Junior. You know I don’t care for begging. Answer my question, or don’t. It’s up to you.”_

_His voice is empty of any feeling, and his hand twitches again, drawing the invisible grasp around Nathaniel’s neck even tighter. Nathaniel tries to scream, to cry, to breathe but the grip is too strong for his lungs to force any sort of noise through._

_Weakly, his small hands come up to bat at his throat, trying to lessen the pain, but the movement is too much for him to maintain, and his arms drop down to his sides again. His blood trickles down from his nose, and his eyes feel as though they will pop right out of their sockets with the amount of pressure building in his skull. Briefly, he thinks of his head just popping right off and it is such an absurd thought that he would laugh, if not for the lack of air._

_Just as he starts to lose consciousness, he is dropped to the hard concrete. His head bangs against it, hard, but Nathaniel barely feels it. He tries to gasp for air, but his abused lungs hurt too much._

_Nathaniel passes out to the sound of his father’s footsteps padding up the basement stairs._

_Later, when he wakes up to his mother crouched over him, his face and hair wet from the bucket of water she dumped on him, somewhere in his barely functioning mind Nathaniel makes a promise to never so much as look at his father’s guests again._

Coming back to himself, Nathaniel pushes his back further into the corner as if trying to meld himself into the wood. His skin feels like it is on fire and ice cold at the same time, numbing and burning to the pulse of his heartbeat.

All too soon the closet feels less like a sanctuary and more like a cage. 

Stupid of him to call anywhere safe, he thinks, as the press of the walls against his back turns from comforting to constricting. His breath comes in ragged gasps, but he slaps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from making too much noise. He has not forgotten the very real threat that prowls outside the closet, but something in him is breaking and he doesn’t know how to keep it inside.

Contain it, like putting a towel over broken glass.

The panic inside him rises as the walls seem to close in on him, cage him, and - _his body is caught in place, unable to move as a knife drags down his abdomen_ \- he needs to get out, needs to get out but he _can’t_.

Nathaniel does the next best thing that he can think of and curls in on himself, arms tight around his stomach and knees drawn up. The walls cannot get him if Nathaniel gets him first, and so he tightens his grip, fingers digging into his sides. 

Making himself smaller is the only thing he is good for, after all. 

His breathing is still too fast, too loud, and he can’t seem to move his hands from where they are clamped around his waist, stuck fast like they are made out of stone. Nathaniel mashes his face into his knees until all he can see is white starbursts under his eyelids. Staying quiet is all that keeps him from Lola’s knives (for now), and the thought is enough for him to bite into his leg to stop sound from escaping. 

He stays like this for a while, small body shivering with repressed sobs. The panic is building in his head, forcing him to hear things, see things that make Nathaniel want to claw his eyes out of his head. It’s rising, a band tightening around his forehead until it’s all he can feel anymore, and-

A warmth settles around him, enveloping him. The air around him is charged with _something_ , an energy he can’t quite place. It’s unfamiliar, but at the same time something about it feels inexplicably safe. 

Nathaniel thinks that if he had a proper understanding of the word, this would feel like _home_.

His hands loosen at his sides, and the sting of unclenching the skin there is immediately soothed as if someone is pressing a warm hand to the bruises. Nathaniel’s whole body seems to relax, and it almost hurts to feel this safe. It’s strange, how quickly he is giving into this _thing_ , considering it could be someone’s quirk gearing up to harm him, or a forgotten injury finally kicking in, but he just trusts it. 

This won’t hurt him. 

Cautiously, he lifts his head from his knees, and the whole world is golden.

Nathaniel is _glowing_ , and he almost stops breathing at the sight of it.

The small lion night light plugged next to his bed had caused shadows to fall in places he didn’t want them, reminders to be wary and stay alert. He had lasted two nights of staying awake, unable to sleep for fear of what could happen should the light reveal something- or _someone_ \- to him. His mother had taken the nightlight away after the third morning, when he fell asleep during school and the teachers had called home. His father was not pleased with him that night, but the darkness of his room had at least hid his view of the soon-to-be scars decorating his body.

This glow is _nothing_ like his nightlight. It lights up the entire closet, filling it fully from top to bottom, the darkest corners reached.

Reddish gold, like his hair ( _his father's hair_ ). Nathaniel pushes the thought away and focuses.

His quirk (because that is what it is, he realises) covers him like a second skin, and when he touches his fingers together they spark slightly and bounce away from each other. He does it again, harder this time, and his fingers fly away from each other so hard they almost hit the wall. 

Nathaniel smiles, and it feels weird on his face, but this is _his_.

This is his _quirk_.

Something he thought he’d never have, due to it never showing up when he was five. His shoulder twinges slightly at the thought of how his father had reacted. 

The way his skin had come off, still attached to the steaming iron makes him wince.

His quirk brightens and grows warmer, as it knows what he is thinking and is trying to comfort him. In a way, he supposes it is. From what he knows of quirks from his mother, it is an extension of _him_ , in the same way his arm or leg is.

Nathaniel wonders if his father could remove his quirk the same way as he threatened to do to his limbs. 

The glow rises up again, and he lets out a small giggle in wonderment. It’s been a while since anything wanted to actively protect him, even if it was only a part of himself that is doing it. 

In this brief moment, Nathaniel is as close to safe as he has ever been. He wraps himself in the feeling, tries to memorise it before it is, surely, ripped out of his grasp. He lets it sink in, deep into his bones until _safe_ isn't just a word, a feeling, it’s _him._

He is safe.

Too soon, he hears the rapid tapping of heels approaching the closet, and his quirk _flares_ as the door is wrenched open. 

“Found you, Junior! Did you really think you could hide from me forever?”

Lola’s silhouette carves a dark shadow over him, her smile so wide it looks painful, sharp knives clawing into the wood. Nathaniel sees a flicker of surprise in her eyes as she takes in exactly what he’s done, but then it passes, replaced with a look of absolute glee. Her knife-fingers twitch, as if in anticipation of what she is going to do with him.

“Oh? Junior, don’t tell me I missed your _quirk_ coming in!” she crows, voice deceptively light hearted. “Well then, stand up, go on. Give us a little twirl.”

When he doesn’t move, frozen in place, her smile thins, and her eyes promise pain. Nathaniel is frozen, stuck in place, and his quirk is responding. The warmth under his skin is powerful, and he can feel it gathering itself like a lion ready to pounce.

“Come on Junior, get _up_ or I’ll make you.” she snarls, sweet face gone now. She reaches forward, knives gleaming and ready to grab him, to _hurt_ him. 

His quirk _roars_ in response.

Nathaniel throws his arms up in front of his face, and is jolted into the hard wood of the closet by the sheer _power_ that impacts his forearms. There is a sound, not unlike wires sizzling and sparking together, and someone lets out a choked gasp. On the other side of the room, Lola slams into the wall so hard he hears something crack, and she screams louder than he thought possible. 

His quirk is thrumming under his skin, and Nathaniel realises that _he_ did this. Lola is writhing on the ground because of _him_. 

For the first time he has the power, and it almost scares him. 

Lola is still shrieking, garbled swears and threats while holding onto her side. Nathaniel takes the chance to climb out of the closet, careful not to grip the sides of the door for fear of doing the same thing he did with Lola to the now flimsy-seeming wood. He is still unsure of what his quirk is exactly, but judging by what happened with his fingers and with Lola, whatever he touches gets pushed away, like his skin is a force field.

A fitting quirk for him then.

“Y-You little _shit!_ What the FUCK did you just do to me?! How dare you- your father will hurt you for this, Junior, and so will I, _so will I._ Your quirk won’t be able to keep you safe from me, Junior, you’ll get tired eventually. And when you do, I’ll be waiting! My knives are gonna look so pretty when they rip your skin open-” Lola’s screams are cut off by the basement door opening, a loud squeal of hinges and the slam as the door swings shut.

Nathaniel freezes, looking towards the open door that Lola came through. How could he forget; there is more than one person in the house who wishes him harm.

Lola starts to laugh, almost hysterically, and Nathaniel's quirk is _painful_ now, reacting to the slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs. Whatever scraps of safety still clinging to him after Lola had found him are gone now, replaced with bone-deep _fear_ , so forceful in it's ministrations that Nathaniel is stuck in place, the glow from his quirk so bright now that the entire room is lit up as if he is a miniature sun.

His father comes into view, sharp blue eyes roaming over Lola’s twisted form and zeroing in on Nathaniel, keenly taking in his glowing state. If Nathan Wesninksi is surprised, he doesn't show it. Not even a flicker of shock or interest can be seen. 

However, as Nathaniel continues to lock eyes with his father, caught in a web of fear and adrenaline, he notices a small change that fills him with fear cold as ice. His father's steel blue eyes are _glowing_ , not at all like the warm glow Nathaniel is giving off. No, his father's eyes are more akin to a cold fire, burning so bright that the whites of his eyes are almost unseen. The air in the room tightens, a different energy filling the atmosphere. 

Nathaniel knows, feels it under his skin, he _knows_ that this is his father's quirk. Readying itself to harm him if he says the wrong thing.

“Junior,” Nathan says, staring almost straight through him, “Cancel your quirk before I make you.”

Nathaniel opens his mouth, but too late, always too late, and the familiar tightness around his throat chokes any sound he could have made.

\--

His mother’s grip on his arm is bruising, and every time his sneakers squeak slightly on the ground the hand tightens imperceptibly. The tunnel magnifies their hurried footsteps, echoing in a way that has his mother’s brows furrowing and her eyes darkening. 

“Mom, where are we-”

“Quiet.”

“But Mom-”

“ _Quiet, Nathaniel._ ”

“Mom-”

She backhands him so suddenly his quirk doesn’t have time to react, and he staggers from the force of it. A second too late, the glowing shield comes up, casting bright gold light onto his mother's shadowy figure. Her face betrays nothing as she gazes down at him, impassive as always. 

Ever since that horrible day when he was seven, ever since his mother came to the house only to find him slumped on the floor, a mottled ring of bruises prominent against his pale neck, and most prominent of all his bright golden form. His father hadn't been able to switch it off, and Nathaniel hadn't either. Finally, his mother had curled up as close as she could to his protected form, and sung to him, a soft lullaby in a language he didn’t know. 

Now though, judging by her firm stature and expressionless voice, he cannot expect a lullaby to help him calm down and release his quirk now.

“Turn it off.”

His head is ringing from the blow, but he gets to his feet. Shakily, he steadies himself and tries to convince himself that he is _fine_ , there is nothing to be worried about. His mother’s cool mask is slipping every second that his quirk stays active, eyes darting back behind them as if to check for attackers who might be drawn by the light.

Nathaniel takes a deep breath, whispers the words again to himself, breathes out. 

It has been three long years since his quirk came in, and control over it has been beaten into him again and again. Normally, a slip up like that would cause much worse than a hand to the face, but his mother isn’t making any more moves towards him, perhaps because it was she who caused it. Her index finger on her right hand is tapping almost imperceptibly against her waist, a telltale sign of worry. 

Nathaniel tries to breathe deeply, tries to think of calming things like the thrill it gives him to hear a ball hitting the back of the net, the rush of exhilaration playing Exy gives him.

His mother, smiling one of her rare smiles on the sideline, eyes bright with an emotion he can’t place.

The glow starts to fade, the shadows reclaiming his mother's features again until they are back in the half light of the tunnel. As soon as his quirk recedes, his mother grabs his arm again, and they run together down the tunnel.

Nathaniel thinks that he is tired of running. 

\--

The girl’s lips are slimy and wet against his, and she seems to be attacking his mouth with her tongue.

Nathaniel- no, it’s Alex now, a new name for a new place- wonders if she is actually enjoying this; her eyes are squeezed closed and eyebrows drawn as if in deep concentration. 

Her name is Melanie, he thinks, and she wears strawberry flavoured lip gloss that leaves a residue in the back of his throat and smears over the corners of his lips. Her hands hook around the back of his neck, pushing their chests together. Alex is suddenly uncomfortably aware of her small breasts flattened right against him, foreign territory that he’s not entirely sure he wants to explore. 

He doesn’t have any experience with girls, boys, _anyone_ at all. Alex doesn’t know if the faint disgust he feels at the clingy girl grabbing onto him is normal, but he presses on for reasons unknown. 

It is almost _because_ of his lack of experience that he is doing this at all, a strange part of himself that he doesn’t quite understand whispering to him to press his lips to hers. 

Somewhere in the back of his brain he thinks about the book he read on how much bacteria resides in the human mouth (100 to 200 different species at any given time) and has to force down the shudder that ensues. 

The party his mother has dragged him through in an attempt to evade possible attackers is loud even through the closed balcony door, and Alex feels antsy at being out in the open like this. His mother had left him with a touch on the shoulder and immediately struck up conversation with a couple of women in flowing dresses without a backwards glance. She trusts that he will know to blend in with the crowd and not cause too much attention towards himself. 

Alex had half heartedly tried to mix with the dancers, swaying gently in the corner under the banner until a hand on his forearm had startled him out of his thoughts, muscles tensing in preparation to grab the tray of pastries next to him and smash the attacker over the face- but when he turned around he met nothing but otherworldly purple eyes and soft cocoa skin. 

She had cast a curious gaze over him, bright violet eyes (presumably due to her quirk) lingering on his mouth a bit too long in a way that made him feel prickles under his skin. 

She hadn’t seemed interested in talking much, instead just leading him out to the balcony for some ‘privacy’, as she phrased it. Alex could have refused as she had leaned towards him, tilting her head down with a small giggle about how she liked guys smaller than herself, but he didn’t. 

And now he is here, overwhelmed by an onslaught of teeth and tongue. He thinks he understands how to do it now, lets his jaw move and his head loll to the side a little. It’s almost enjoyable now, still with undertones of _wrong_ but if he ignores it then it’s alright. 

Alex is good at ignoring things, like the ache of bruises under his skin still tender from yesterday.

All too soon, Melanie grows too confident, and it all goes to shit. 

One of her hands creeps up his shirt without warning, and her fingers brushing against bare skin and sensitive scar tissue snaps him out of thought. The world seems to move in slow motion as he wrenches himself away from her, lost in memories of grasping fingers and wicked smiles. 

The sudden movement on his part causes them to stumble back from each other, Melanie’s eyes sparking and expression twisted in confusion. Alex’s hip glances off the metal railing but he barely registers it, panic clouding his mind until he can hardly breathe. 

Deep in his core he can feel his quirk, stirring lethargically in response to his distress. 

The fresh dose of the long-lasting quirk suppressants his mother injected him with a week ago have done their job. He hasn’t fully activated it for a long time now; the bright colour and function being too distinctive for two runaways. Even with his freshly applied blonde hair and green eyes, done by a short, scary-looking Russian lady who's hands had glowed a sharp black as she Shifted his features.

He grips the railing hard, and tries to take deep, slow intakes of air, the cold night air making his kiss-bruised mouth ache. 

Reminded of _who_ exactly put those marks there, Alex lifts his pounding head to meet Melanie’s too-vivid eyes.

_Too late_ , Alex sees her purple orbs widen in horror at what she must catch a glimpse of, _stupid_ of him to not think about what exactly her unnaturally coloured eyes allow her to do other than sparkle prettily. 

Mind reading quirks are more common than you would think, his mother had drilled that one into him. If anyone were to see something they weren't supposed to, see inside the darkness that Alex concealed under fake names and quirk-changed features, all it would take is one anonymous tip off to the right people and Alex would be right back where he started.

Lola’s knives are no doubt eager to make him scream once more, and he forces away the thought of the torture his father has planned. 

Melanie reaches out to him slightly, hand shaking and a horrible look of _pity_ on her face. She opens her mouth as if to say something to comfort him, but _she should_ _know better_. 

He is no one to be pitied or comforted, something she will find out in a second.

Alex lunges forward and roughly grabs ahold of the taller girl’s shoulders, hooking his foot behind her’s to effectively trip her off her balance, giving him the leverage he needs to switch their positions. 

She thuds against the railing and lets out a low groan of pained surprise. “Alex, what are you doing?! Alex, you're hurting me, _please_!”

“What did you see.” His voice is too close to his father's for comfort, but Alex brushes the thought aside.

“What did you _see_?”

“ _Oh, Alex._ I-I didn't see anything, I swear! M-my quirk doesn't work like that!”

_Liar_. She saw something, Alex is sure of it. Being a good liar tends to help you recognise when someone else is lying, and Melanie isn't telling him the whole truth by the way her eyes dart downwards and to the right slightly, teeth nervously worrying her swollen lips.

“ _Tell me_.” In a desperate move to get her to talk, he lets his face show a little desperation, makes his tone turn slightly more choked and panicked rather than menacing. “Melanie, please I can't- I need to know what you saw.”

He looks up at her slightly, careful not to meet her eyes straight on; instead focusing on the skin between her eyebrows. She wavers, sighing in defeat and going limp where his hands hold tightly to her arms. 

“I-I don't see things, truly. But I do feel. And just then… Alex, the sadness-” her eyes fill with tears, expression contorting into a look he has seen in dirty motel mirrors one too many times. Usually he would be annoyed at the pity and snap something rude at the offender, but the sheer relief that fills him upon learning that all she knows is his sadness. 

There are much worse things she could have felt. 

Alex interrupts her before she can say anything else, stepping back and releasing her from his grip in one fluid motion.

“I need to go now.”

“Wait-”

The balcony door clicks shut too quietly for the storm raging in his head.

He merges with the crowd effortlessly, scanning the nameless faces for his mother’s familiar sharp-angled one. If she's smart, Melanie will forget about Alex, and never tell anyone about what happened.

At least, he hopes she won't. 

The whole thing was a mistake, something he never should have done. Alex should have never followed her onto the balcony, never let her smear her disgusting glossed lips near him, _never_ should have listened to the part of him that was curious for it, wanted to try it.

When his mother's fists rain down on him hours after she has found him, dragged him from the crush as discreetly as possible, he does not cry. She was bound to have found out anyway, not needing the aid of a mind reading quirk to see his too-red lips, dazed eyes and rumpled clothing to put two and two together.

Crying is for people who can't control themselves.

His mother cracks him upside the jaw one final time before stepping back, icily telling him to _get up, fix himself up_.

The whole time she was beating him she had been telling him that this would not be happening if he hadn't gone off with that girl, that things like that were a distraction, and dangerous. That if he was ever to do it again she would beat him even harder, leave him for his father to find if all he would do is drag her down. 

Funny, Alex thinks to himself, how her words bruise him more than her fists.

That night they fall asleep as they always do, back pressed against back, hands curling under their pillows to grip a knife (him) or a gun (her).

Alex’s body is broken, just like his mind, and the look of horror on Melanie’s face as he tore his gaze away from her glowing eyes plagues his dreams that night, and the next.

\--

The fiery wreck on the beach is sending waves of heat in every direction, but the boy standing next to it, backpack dropped near his feet and hands clenched with his clothes crusted with dried blood hardly feels it. 

He doesn’t feel anything, except for the thrum under his skin saying _run, run, run_. 

He doesn’t feel anything when he collects his mother's smoking bones, still red hot from the flames and burning his hands, and shoves them into his backpack. Nothing, except for the voice in his head saying _hurry up_. Doesn’t feel anything as he digs a hole in the sand, making his nails bleed and palms grow irritated and red, digs until the hole is more water than space, doesn’t feel anything as he pushes the backpack deep into it until he can’t see it under the stirred up silt and congealed sand. 

Doesn’t feel anything as he shoves the sand back into place. 

Doesn’t feel anything as he buries a part of him under the sand with it.

After he has rolled the car into the icy water, and the beach is quiet of pain-filled screams, crackling flames and heavy breaths, he takes the voice inside his head's advice, and he runs, worn out sneakers squeaking along the sand.

His mother has died. 

Dead.

Gone and dead and bones, bones he is likely to never give a proper funeral to, never say a proper goodbye to.

_No time for grief, keep moving._ His mother's voice echoes inside his head, and he almost trips trying to reach behind him, needing the security of his duffel against his fingers.

His mother is dead, and he is alone.

The binder (and the precious contacts, among other valuables inside it) burns a hole in his duffle bag, and he runs, runs, runs.

\--

The Exy court in Millport is far from impressive, even more so now that it is being dismantled for the end of the season. Neil Josten (a new name, a new place) watches from the concrete steps as a young man in a neon safety jacket carefully directs parts of the large plexiglass walls through the air, hands outstretched. Neil feels sick watching, the quirk hitting too close to home, but he can't tear his eyes away. 

Exy has always been the one thing he could never give up, even on the run. Watching the games in dingy bars and hotel rooms had been the closest he could get until Millport. He hadn’t meant to join the local school team, but when he saw the sign for tryouts on the community billboard- the last remnants of his hopeless dreams- he couldn’t take his eyes off it. It called, and after seven long years of ignoring it, he answered.

Neil rests his hand on his duffel next to him and looks up at the evening sky. In his fingers, his cigarette burns lower and lower. The smoke fills his head, and he wonders what exactly Mary Hatford would say if she saw her son now. 

Nothing good, he’s sure.

A door squeaks open behind him, and he turns his head to see Hernandez as he comes to sit down beside Neil. 

Neil shuffles slightly away, disguising the movement as a shiver in the cool air. The Exy coach has been turning a blind eye to Neil’s frequent break-ins to the locker room- a precaution he has to take due to squatting in the many uninhabited Millport homes being too dangerous to do too often- but his large frame and height still makes Neil wary of him. 

“Didn’t see your parents at the game.” 

“They're still out of town,” Neil says. He knows Hernandez wants to say something, pry a bit more, but he foregoes it for silence. Neil appreciates it. “I’ll call them later and tell them the score,” he says, shooting another quick glance at the coach. The older man nods, looking away and then back at Neil. 

Nervous. Why is Hernandez nervous? 

“There’s someone here to see you,” he says. Neil feels his blood freeze in his veins. Hernandez continues, oblivious to Neil’s mounting panic. “He’s from the Palmetto Foxes, y’know, the college team? I sent them your videos, I think-”

Neil isn’t listening anymore.

He whips his head around to the door Hernandez just came out of and barely catches a glance of the man standing in the doorway, barely notes down the thick, curling tribal tattoos on his forearms and file he holds in his hands before he is running, duffle banging against his side. 

Neil is stupid to think he could be safe here, stupid to have joined up for the Exy team even though his mother had warned him not to. How many beatings had he taken for even talking about Exy in front of her? Too-fucking-many for him to let this happen.

And shit, the _video_ . Hernandez had a _video_ of him. 

The contact his mother and him had seen mere days before the beach was good, Neil’s features still slightly altered and his hair and eye colour were still black and brown. His mother's contact had been one of many, nameless, but powerful enough to change Chris Jones into Neil Josten.

But all of that careful planning and power would be wasted if _he_ was here. 

Neil had only caught a glance of David Wymack, the coach of Palmetto States Foxes, but he recognised him easily, and if Wymack was here for what Neil thinks he’s here for... Neil has to leave.

Neil’s vision narrows and his head screams that he has to _go_ , has to _run_ , has to forget Neil Josten and everything else. Has to forget the freedom playing on the court gives him. His legs pump faster, harder-

He sees the figure standing between him and the locker room door and the glint of the bright orange Exy racquet, but he is going too fast to stop. His breath is driven out of him as quickly as a gunshot, and he is on his hands and knees. Air refuses to yield to him, and he gasps, reflux building in the back of his mouth. 

Balefully, he thinks through the ringing in his ears that if he does throw up at least it’ll be on the piece of shit who knocked him down in the first place.

Wymack and Hernandez run up behind them, but Neil barely registers it. “Jesus, Minyard. Would it kill you to play nice for two seconds?”

“Maybe,” says the mocking voice above Neil, “ _Maybe_ it would. But I’m sure you don’t want to take that chance, do you?”

“Minyard, I swear to God.”

“Coach, don’t use such _language_. The little rabbit here might get scared.”

Neil manages to suck in a breath, and glares up at Andrew Minyard, goalie for the Palmetto Foxes. 

Minyard doesn’t look like much, shorter than Neil and hair a white blond, but Neil knows better. Minyard had spent three years in juvie, and only barely got out of a second term. He also turned down the Ravens, the most prestigious and well known Exy team there is, when they sent Kevin and Riko to recruit him, choosing instead to join the Foxes with his twin brother and cousin. He had caused an uproar in the Exy community when Kevin, after breaking his dominant hand in a “ski accident”, had also joined the Foxes, Ravens fans spreading rumours about how it was Minyard that had influenced it.

Minyard glances down at Neil, his signature manic smile wide on his face. Not breaking eye contact, Minyard reaches two fingers up to the crown of his head, and gives Neil a small salute.

“Better luck next time.”

“Fuck you,” Neil spits back at him. Minyard just steps back, still looking, still smiling. 

Behind him, Wymack clears his throat, and Neil scrambles up from the floor, suddenly aware of the fourth presence in the room, standing just behind Wymack and viewing the scene before him with an aggravating air of superiority. 

Neil meets Kevin Day’s eyes and feels like he’s just been punched in the gut again.

Even at the sight of him, Neil can feel his quirk shifting under his skin, attention shooting to Kevin’s scarred hand, visible where it hangs by his side. Neil thinks of Riko, when they were all ten, smashing the Exy ball so hard into the goal they couldn’t pry it out of the back wall.. 

He thinks of how developed Riko’s quirk is now, and imagines that power slamming into Kevins hand. 

His quirk flares again, strong with fear, and Neil hurries to push it down. 

Neil Josten, for all Kevin and his troupe of recruiters know, is quirkless. Neil once again thanks fuck for Exy’s heavily followed rules on zero quirk allowance while playing, and the quirk-quards they all have to wear to immobolise their quirks from coming out. 

Even so, panic still rises in the back of his throat, heady and dangerous as Kevin glares at Neil from his place beside Wymack.

He waits for the inevitable gasp, the secret to be revealed, that _fucking name_.

Neil waits for the end of his world, but it never comes. 

“Neil Josten. You’re fast, but your technique is horrible.” Kevin looks Neil up and down, and Neil almost cries to see the disinterested look Kevin has, eyes blank and unrecognising. His mother’s contact did their job well. Kevin looks away from Neil to Wymack, a scowl on his face. “Hurry up and offer him the contract.”

“I’m not joining your jolly band of misfits, so you can put your contract away,” Neil says, “You said it yourself, I’m horrible at Exy. You don’t want me.”

“Yet here we stand,” Wymack says, pushing a few sheets of official-looking paper towards Neil. “Need a pen?”

“I’m not good enough to play on the same court as-”

“That is irrelevant.” Kevin cuts in, fixing another glare at Neil, the 2 on his cheek scrunching up. “We are waiting for you to sign. Stop wasting our time.”

“No,” Neil says. “There are a thousand other player who would love to be in your team. Go bother them, and leave me _alone._ ”

Wymack gives him a look. “We saw their files. We want you.”

Neil feels his emotions start to take hold, judgement wavering. His mother, his mother, his mother, his head whispers, but something else is taking a hold of him, something Neil though he had locked away for good. 

“Why me.” Neil’s voice is ground out and thin, and he hates how weak he sounds. His mother would hate it too, always telling him to hide his true emotions away, always lying, always hiding. 

“You play like you have everything to lose,” Kevin tells him, and Neil breaks quietly.

\--

thanks for reading!!!


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